At Gunpoint
by Crescentium
Summary: Can a precognitive understand a telepath's dreams and where they might take him?


Everything was much simpler when he was holding a gun. At gunpoint, life was more intense. That moment before the end, every breath mattered. People felt real and they remembered everything they had forgotten, because there was no more time left.

Schuldig pressed his forehead against the cold, round surface and let his finger rest on the trigger. He was alone, kneeling in a quiet room. He remembered feeling the gun against his head and praying to God for help. He remembered the gun on his spine, aimed at his heart in between the ribs, briefly thinking about his children before the end came. He remembered the gun under his chin and thinking of getting his brain blown out a moment before it happened. And he remembered how red the blood had looked on the floor.

The telepath remembered everyone he had ever shot. They were inside him, their thoughts crawling in his memories, and only his death would ever truly bring them peace. Now they were more alive than they had ever been when they had still been breathing. He never really felt he knew anyone until he had killed them. Their entire lives were summarised in that one moment. In that moment, everything was simple.

Life was simpler when he was holding a gun. There was only the gun and the target, and he knew who was who. He yearned for that clarity.

Schuldig pressed the muzzle against his cheek. He imagined pulling the trigger, he remembered pulling the trigger, only the thought was not in his mind, but was this his hand holding the gun? He had to grab his hand with the other hand to make sure what was real. Still he wasn't sure if it was his hand, maybe it was Crawford's that he felt holding on to his own, holding him back, and he was holding on to the precognitive's hand. Suddenly life wasn't simple at all.

"I wondered how you ended up doing it." This was Crawford's voice, and Schuldig realised that the disjointed thoughts and images were in his mind and the precognitive was outside, and the reality was with Crawford. The telepath opened his eyes and saw the American sitting calmly in front of him on the floor.

"Doing what?" Schuldig's voice was hoarse.

"Shooting yourself," Crawford replied matter-of-factly, like it was not important; but his eyes had a look that belied his upset.

"I wasn't going to shoot myself." The objection sounded weak when the muzzle of the gun was pressed against his cheek, so Schuldig lowered his hands to his lap.

Crawford was silent and examined the telepath's face. He looked very serious. Schuldig realised why he was here; the precognitive must have seen something. He looked at the gun in his lap in shock. It had never occurred to him that he might actually pull the trigger.

"How do you expect me to trust you?" Crawford asked, staring hard at Schuldig. "I need to know you can control yourself. What was it this time? Lost in someone's mind again? Or was it some dumb experiment?"

Dumb. Crawford had called him that before. Normally, Schuldig laughed it off. This time the telepath closed his eyes and squeezed the gun harder. It was dumb, wasn't it? If Crawford had seen it, it must mean he would have accidentally pulled the trigger. It didn't get dumber than that. Dumb, these thoughts, dumb, these feelings, dumb, this whole thing.

"What was it, Schuldig?" Crawford repeated, and he was closer this time, his hands resting on Schuldig's shoulders. His voice was not angry, it was not quiet, it was all _there_. But the precognitive would not understand. He would not understand a telepath's dreams.

"It's nothing. It was stupid." Schuldig avoided looking at Crawford, but the precognitive's hand moved to the back of his neck and held tight.

"Damn right it was stupid," Crawford said. "But if you won't tell me, I can't trust you, and I will have lost a valuable asset." The precognitive looked at Schuldig intently. "Why were you kneeling here, apparently contemplating suicide?"

Schuldig didn't like it, he turned his head, not unlike a pouting child, refusing an immediate answer. But the silence continued, and it bothered him until he had to give in. He stared at the gun in his lap and realised he had still not let go of it. He didn't want to let go of it.

"I saw a dream." It sounded so stupid he decided against telling. Crawford would laugh. But the precognitive was serious. He was waiting. Schuldig knew the waiting would go on until Crawford would grow tired, and then he would have the answer anyway, somehow. He always did. "It was confusing, I... I guess... I just wanted some clarity." Schuldig stared at the gun. "Everything's simpler when I'm holding the gun."

Crawford was silent. The hand holding Schuldig's neck gripped just a little tighter. "What was the dream like?"

"It doesn't matter," the telepath said, it wasn't true, but he wanted his promise to be: "I won't do it again." He had not kept all his promises. He closed his eyes and leaned his head in until it rested on the precognitive's shoulder. "I won't," he whispered. "You need to believe me this time."

And he needed it, more than he had ever needed anything from Crawford. He needed to have this; this, which was the only thing in his life that made sense; this, which was the only direction he knew. If the precognitive would lose faith in him, he would have nothing left. That moment, he was bare and naked and he could only be thankful that Crawford was not a telepath.

"You're all I have," Schuldig said and put one arm around the other man's shoulders. He didn't want to look up, he pressed closer, tighter, his lips were searching the precognitive's neck. "_We_ are all we have."

Crawford did not acknowledge it, but the telepath felt the man's cheek against his head. Then, "I believe you, Schuldig." And the precognitive held him a little tighter. The telepath smiled and forgot the world into the silence of Crawford's mind.


End file.
